


A New, Neverending Story

by FiaMac



Category: Original Work
Genre: Comment Fic, Magic Books, Sort Of, Things I Wrote When I Was Supposed to be Working
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27596155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: I can feel it—calling out, reaching. Forme. It wants me. I believe that, even though I know such things are impossible.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	A New, Neverending Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mabrii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabrii/gifts).



> For mabrii, who wanted endless pages, forever. I don't even know what this is, it just sort of happened. But enjoy!

I can feel it—calling out, reaching. For _me_. It wants me. I believe that, even though I know such things are impossible.

Heart in my throat and a weak excuse poised on my tongue, I approach the gates. Looking straight ahead, I march through. I’m four steps past before I realize no alarm has sounded. I start to breathe again.

That’s only one fear eliminated, however. Outside, I speed up my pace, eyes furtive on my surroundings as I clutch my bag closer. No one is watching, and yet there are eyes everywhere. I’m being ridiculous. I realize that. I’m one of dozens of people moving in and out of the library. The weather is nice, so everyone is about. People are chatting, texting, focused on their own lives. No one notices me or the deceptively heavy weight hanging off my shoulder.

The parking lot is an assault of too-bright sunlight glinting off of too many cars. Why must there be so many people around? I curl around my bag, lost in some feverish conviction that a passerby is going to recognize it for the treasure that it is and snatch it from my grip.

Or, possibly worse—one of the library staff will walk through the stacks on the second floor and spot the empty space on the lower shelf. The books there had all been dusty. Obviously, none of them have been touched in months, maybe years. The sudden gap will scream like a claxon horn, announcing to everyone that a book has gone missing.

I still can’t believe I stole a library book, even though the evidence is digging into my side with a hard corner. Not that I’m a paragon of virtue. I know my faults. But books are sacred—meant to be coveted, yes, but never hoarded, and certainly not made the object of petty crime.

It’s just…

There’s something about this one. It wanted me to take it. Like it saw me in that aisle and called me over. There was nothing about it to make it stand out on the shelf. A spine with no lettering, the fabric cover a worn gray-green. Mundane. Non-descript. But I knew—as I reached out, as my fingers stroked the edge where a title should have been, and I felt the whisper of warmth feathering across the back of my hand… I knew this was special.

I’m not sure why I didn’t just bring it down to the counter. I bet there’s a special hell for people who steal books that don’t need to be stolen. But I… I can’t explain it. I just knew it wanted to be with me. And not just for a few weeks. Forever.

There were no labels on the cover. No barcodes or stamps or taped-on stickers leashing it to the library. So, I took a chance, shoved the book into my bag, and fled.

With every step, I heard it. Practically singing to me its joy at discovery, relief at not being left behind. Even now, as I all but dive into my car and lock myself in, my head is filling with the exultant song of bells, ocean waves, laughter, and champagne bubbles. All things happy and good. I pull the book out of my bag, and the song grows louder, taking up more space in my head and finding room to expand in my hands, my toes, in that place just below my lungs that sometimes feels void and pointless. But not today. Today I am so filled with joy that it has nowhere left to go but the tears in my eyes.

A sudden buzzing cuts through the euphoria, startling me. My phone.

I sniff and wipe at my nose, carefully putting the book down on the passenger seat before digging the phone out.

_So, lunch at the taco place? Unless there’s somewhere else you want to go._

_1-ish? We can meet you there._

Shit. I forgot about lunch, so focused on getting the book somewhere safe. There’s no way I can play it cool in a taqueria while the book sits in the car, alone and waiting. It’s been waiting so long, already.

_I can’t make it, I’m sorry._

_What do you mean? We planned this._

_I know. I’m so sorry._

_There’s something I need to do. I’ll explain tomorrow. Promise._

Without waiting for a response, I toss the phone back in my bag and start the car. I look over at the book. “Just a little longer.”

The bell-bird-chimes swell, bright and rich, before hushing down. Yes, patience. We can both be patient. It’s only a ten-minute drive. “We’ll be home soon,” I assure.

I battle back my own anticipation to drive with utmost focus. I couldn’t bear to be pulled over today of all days. Still, I can’t help but put a hand out every few minutes, just to feel that warmth again. “Soon,” I tell us both.

And, yes, just a couple more turns, and I’m pulling up in front of my house. Cradling the book to my chest, I hurry inside and lock up as soon as the door clicks shut.

I’m being silly, again. No one is going to come storming in. The rational voice in my brain understands that no one else knows what I hold in my arms. How could they? It’s not for them.

It’s me.

I look down and smile, eyes growing damp once more.

It chose _me_.

Sliding down the door, I rest the book in my lap and do what I didn’t dare while still in public—I open the book and flip through the first few pages.

The paper is aged, textured, and bare of any words whatsoever.

But as I run my hand down the page, I can feel it. The warmth. The questing presence of something marvelous. It reaches for me, just like it did in the library, cautiously hopeful, almost plaintive. My heart breaks to think about how long it must have sat, alone and unnoticed, before I chanced down that aisle. And so I reach back with everything I have—my mind, my soul… the parts of me I’ve never understood because neither science nor faith could ever explain well enough what it is to _be_. I reach out and feel that first true connection. “Hello, darling.”

_Starlight._

Glowing tapestries of galaxies and pinpricks of ice.

Pools of molten color swirling on a warm breeze, carrying with them the ever-shifting scents of apples and rusty iron. The wind eddies around me, churning up a carillon tune that reverberates to the tips of my hair.

The maelstrom of sensation coalesces into a rushing supernova that whips through me. As it passes, I catch tastes of thoughts, emotions. Vivid flares of ideas that trail possibilities through my eyelashes. In the space of a heartbeat, I see it all—all the histories of humankind, the epic sagas of peoples not yet encountered. Worlds that have been created, destroyed, and rebuilt on the legends of heroes. The quotidian romances that spur fanciful adventures.

I see everything. Hear it. I feel it all, as if I’ve lived a thousand lives and, yet, stand ready on the cusp of reincarnation.

And as one beat becomes two, as the clock in the next room ticks over another passing second, the universe grows soft around the edges. I take a breath and become me again.

But more.

Blinking away the haze, I look down at the book in my lap. The pages are still warm, still blank. No longer grasping for my hand but, instead, resting peacefully in my embrace. Content now that there will be someone to share its stories with.

“I love you, too.”


End file.
